A Conversation
by Vile Slanders
Summary: Just a small collection of passing thoughts.


He sat alone at a two seater dining table. Faux wood topper and plastic banded sides connected with his elbows. A sweating can of soda rested in his left hand, and the fingers of his right hand quietly drummed out a nine-note tune on the table's top.

He was garbed in an unadorned black t-shirt, and similarly plain blue-jean painters neatly hugged his waist. Yet despite his modest attire, a peculiar groom of hair sprouted from his chin, and a pair of unkempt hairy streaks ran laterally past the tragus of his ears to connect the joints of his jaw with his temples in a set of perfectly straight lines.

His short dark hair was swept back in an aggressive fashion, though the sides of his scalp were visibly combed. There was not one hint, be it luster or matte, that indicated any additional product in his hair, other than simple soap. His brow was pronounced, but not so heavy, and the forehead above was proudly inclined. His cheekbones and jawline were finely carved, yet a large hawkish nose and defined subtle chin contested his other olympian features.

But in spite of the humble raiment and roguish facial structure, the articles that captured the most significant sum of my attentions were his eyes.

Deep set. Dark hazel irises rimmed with a nutty brown ring. Intense and serene, bored and intrigued, pensive and relaxed. Those eyes drank in the world they beheld, and some process of the world behind those eyes glimmered through. They were observant, contemplative, bold and collected.

And they seemed so sad, buried in the shadows of their bruised lids.

An order was called from the counter behind the man, and a sudden alertness deprived him of his pensive demeanor. Slowly rising from his seat, the man collected a pair of plates and a dish of rice from the counter, before returning to his table to partake of his evening meal.

Rangoons and curry, sizzling bean curd and seared bells. Stripping his utensils of their paper sheathe, the man selected a pair of bamboo boughs in favor of the steel fork and spoon. Splitting his chopsticks free from their indented joint, the man carefully positioned them within the nape of his thumb and index finger, before balancing their heft between the tips of his thumb and forefingers.

He proved clumsy in his cutlery's manipulation, but a practiced hand soon recalled its former lessons. He did not struggle to imbibe his meal with such simple tongs, though he had to pause in order to adjust his grip several times. He did not scoop his meal, but properly sampled it one piece at a time, and even shown himself adept enough to lift clumped rice from the bowl and to his lips.

It was a skill that many Caucasians struggled with, as most could not grasp the simple technique of resting their clumped rice between the boughs, instead of pinching and clamping at single grains.

He dined slowly, showing little sign of pleasure in his meal, though revulsion was absent in his expressions as well. He simply ate because he needed to, and he ate twice the meal of a normal man.

The scale of his repast was measured disproportionate to the scale of his girth. For despite the mountains of food that decorated his plates, his figure was quite trim. He did not display a perceivable bulge of fat, and his frame seemed athletic in its design. While he possessed neither excessive mass nor definition of musculature, the taper of his joints and the vein-laced chords of his arms still betrayed no frailty in his physique.

He was fit, and by the healthy depression between his pectorals and the incurved slant of his abdomen, one could discern that such fitness bequeathed itself to his entire person. The well toned muscles of his neck and back drew stark hollows with every flex of his sweaty shirt, while his defined collarbones cut at the neck of his shirt.

Peculiar seemed he, this man of mixed proportions. Refined and uncouth. Scholarly and brutish. Rugged and delicate. Young, yet seemingly old. Cultured, yet undistinguished in his heritage.

Of all the patrons in this tiny hole in the wall, he alone held my interest. I simply couldn't leave my barren plate and half-emptied drink when such a character sat but two tables from me.

And so my curiosity drove me, as it had so many times before, to intrude upon his evening meal, and test his mettle with my wit.

"You know, you could probably eat that faster with a fork." I greeted him with a smile, as I sat my uninvited self at his table. To my pleasure, he seemed neither alarmed nor annoyed at my presentation, and after he sampled the rice lingering in his boughs, he politely set aside his utensils, and smiled at me with the accompaniment of his undivided attention.

"The goal is not to eat quickly." He charmed, still smiling in an amused fashion.

"Why not? Don't you have places to be?" I grinned, lounging back in my appropriated chair.

"No place that requires a hurry." He replied, his dialect unfamiliar to my ears.

"You're not a local, are you?" I changed track at a whim, and he proved quick enough to keep up.

"If by local, you mean born here, then no: I'm not a local." He replied.

"But you live here?" I asked, and he shrugged with a jocular smile.

"I'm afraid so." A chortle accompanied his answer.

"Interesting. Most white guys around these parts don't take kindly to a black woman sporadically interrupting their meal." I rocked my head and pursed my lips while I awaited his reply. A slight furrow deepened his brow, and a serious tone slightly tightened the corners of his mouth.

"This is a depressingly prejudiced location, isn't it?" He sighed, as he wiped his hands with a napkin.

"Some might say disgustingly over depressingly." I answered boldly, pressing him past his reservation.

"Sapient human beings would agree with you." He replied, as he shook his head with a saddened air.

"So are you sapient?" I asked.

"I would hope so." Came his pleasant reply.

"Student?" I asked, referencing the nearby university.

"I'm not that dumb." He replied.

"Graduate?" I bantered.

"I'm not that smart." He joked. I found a new smile lifting the corners of my face, despite the attempt to remain serious.

"So what are you then?" I asked, growing increasingly curious.

"I'm an overpaid package boy." He said it without shame or pride, though he still bore a comic's smile.

"Nice." I answered, slowly nodding my head in laid back awe.

There was a silence that passed between us then, as his smiling eyes held onto mine.

"So do you say anything, or do you only speak when spoken to?" I asked, a teasing smile worn openly on my face.

Yet he still remained unsullied.

"I generally prefer to listen, though should the circumstances permit it, I can become quite the irrepressible rant." He replied, his soft smile still vibrant and alive.

"So what does it take to get you to assert yourself in a conversation?" I asked, straightening out in my chair.

A stunning display answered me, as he extended a cordial arm my way.

"Daniel Antonio." He introduced himself over the gesture.

"Felicia Jackson." I replied, accepting his hand in mine. His fingers were straight and narrow, and while the hide of his palm seemed soft to the touch, I could feel robust calluses tipping his digits, and the hardened skin of his upper palm.

A sudden clamping of his hand took me by surprise, but the pressure he exerted upon me was not painful, merely firm, and such pressured released itself as a brisk shake completed our exchange.

"Well Felicia, if I may be perfectly assertive, what exactly brought you to this table?" Daniel asked me.

"You seemed more interesting than all the other blocks in this humble diner. I just wanted someone to harass." I chuckled.

"I can assure you, you have done everything but harass me." Daniel replied, lightly laughing at my confession.

"Goody." I answered, smiling coyly at my host.

But not even my naked charm could phase him.

"So do you often greet strangers with such mannerisms?" Daniel asked, turning the conversation onto me.

"All the time." I answered.

"For what purpose?" Daniel asked.

"For fun." I replied.

"An interesting hobby." Daniel commented.

"Well… Meeting new people can lead to exciting places." I elaborated.

"I'm sure that it can." Daniel replied, settling back into his chair, before lifting his chopsticks to resume his dining.

"Let me guess…" I leaned a cheek onto a knuckle as I measured Daniel with a trained eye.

"You come from a broken home." I announced. Daniel just chuckled over a sprout, and chose to answer me after he had swallowed his meager mouthful.

"Me and seventy percent of America." Daniel replied.

"You had a rough childhood." I pressed.

"Better than some, worse than most." Daniel still hadn't batted an eye.

"You're a writer." I made my verdict known with a smile.

"Takes one to know one." Daniel replied.

"Me? A writer? No, I suck at literature. I'm an illustrator." I amended.

"An artist is an artist. Don't tell me that your illustrations lack meaning." Daniel shrugged.

"There's a big difference between an illustrator and a writer though." I replied.

"Not really. The only real difference is the mediums we employ. All art tells a story. Your stories use imagery, my stories use words." Daniel retorted.

"You're a deep thinker, aren't you?" I scrutinized my bantering opponent with a wary eye.

"It's a dirty habit of mine." Daniel confessed.

"Big-Picture kind of guy?" I probed.

"I prefer quantifying my personal reflections, not expanding them beyond all relativity." Daniel answered.

"I'll pretend that I understand what that means." I grinned at Daniel, who chuckled before his response.

"Like I said, it's a dirty habit." Daniel joked.

I found myself liking him immensely.

"So is it laundry day?" I asked, looking pointedly at Daniel's drab attire.

"No, it's just who cares day." Daniel answered, still quite comfortable with my incessant needling.

"Let me guess… You normally go punk rocker slash bikerboy." I surmised such from his styled facial hair and his cast off shades.

"Flattering, but no. I'm more of a striped polo and black denim kind of guy." Daniel laughed.

That genuinely surprised me.

"You? In a polo? Are you a golfer?" I spouted my shock.

"Oh God, no. I've never swung a club in my life." Daniel was chuckling into his rangoons, while I shook my head in shock.

"Why polos?" I pressed, desperate to understand this madness.

"They're formal enough to meld in anywhere, but casual enough to wear relaxed. That, and I make them look good." Daniel answered.

"Tucked or untucked?" I asked, a weighty judgement implied by my tone.

"Untucked." Daniel replied.

"I'd buy it." I shrugged.

"You're easy to please." Daniel laughed.

-Oh, he had no idea…

"So Felicia…" Daniel started rubbing his steepled palms together, as a pensive weight scrunched the deep lines of his brow.

"Yes?" I asked, growing excited by his latest of displays.

"...My turn." Daniel announced in a voice dripping with smuggery. I sat back with a practiced smile on my lips, and tried not to let the flattery show its mark.

"...You have an older brother." Daniel chanced.

"Two actually." My smile started blooming into a grin.

"You're a student, paying her own way through art school." Daniel replied.

"Not bad. Especially given that it's a medical university and not a school of the arts." My gums were now exposed. Such a dopey smile of mine generally melted any man who saw it, but Daniel only paused while his own smile grew.

"...You're recovering from a recent break-up." Daniel stated.

My grin disappeared in a flash.

"What makes you say that?" I asked, fluttering my lashes, and resurrecting that goofy smile for Daniel.

"It's nothing. Forget I said anything." Daniel retreated with a respectful dignity, clearly sensitive to the same emotions that I endeavored to hide.

But I wasn't letting him off the hook that easily.

"No-no-no-no-no. Something that I'm doing made you think that, and I want to know what it is." I pressed, and an ounce of my friendliness was replaced by severity.

"It's not something that you're doing-" Daniel began.

"-Then what is it?" I asked, my face becoming deadly serious. Daniel chewed his upper lip and finally broke eye contact with me.

"...Just call it a gut instinct." Daniel replied.

And that gut instinct of his saved our budding friendship.

"What kind of stories do you write, Daniel?" I relented, but my demeanor was now far more mature.

"Oh, just the usual. Romance, angst, tragedy, horror. You know. Punk-rocker bikerboy stuff." Daniel smiled pleasantly, but that sad look in his eyes now carried a new meaning to me.

"Sounds edgy. Do any scifi or fantasy based stuff?" I asked.

"Guilty." Daniel shrugged. I felt a new smile lift my lips.

"Mind if I go out on a limb in regards to your illustrations?" Daniel was being cautious with his curiosity now, and a slight stab of guilt bade me to apologize.

"Go right ahead." I fixed both eyes on his, and felt the the back of his left hand under mine.

"...You're an impressionist." Daniel stated his intuition, and I smiled softly at its accuracy.

"A little bit, though I'm swaying towards surrealism any more." I replied, taking Daniel's lone hand in both of mine.

I studied the curves of his palm intently, tracing every creased line with a slow and heavy fingertip.

"...So what about you?" I asked softly.

"What about me?" Daniel asked in a curious tone.

"...Got some lucky girl in your life?" I asked, placing my palm against Daniel's, and splaying my digits to match his.

"...Not for a very long time." Daniel answered, and for the first time, I saw him falter.

"...So you're in the market?" I asked, placing my other hand against his.

"I don't like shopping." Daniel smiled. I started laughing.

"Typical guy…" I smiled, as our joined hands left the table.

"Hardly." Daniel chuckled, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a pleasant glow fill the hollow of my left breast.

"Touche." I grinned at him, as I led Daniel over towards the diner's front door.


End file.
